The Paroles Of JK

Love! Always this ridiculous obsession with love!

(I always have an obsession with correct grammar and spelling, but so far that’s never been made into a musical starring Ewan MacGregor. But we can dream.)

Because one thing’s piling onto another and a blog’s just come up that’s frustrated me a tiny little bit, so sausages to everyone expecting something sensible. It’s half one.

Love is all around us. It is all pervading and abused to the point of humiliation. Dior released a perfume called “j’adore,” which any half awake fourth year will tell you mean “I love.”

It doesn’t even have a damn subject. Just a universal declaration of love for, whatever. It sounds nice. Words that sound nice. And love is the nicest sounding word of all.

Love gives you goosebumps. I love you has power when shouted in a crowd or when whispered in bed or when just said, hand in hand, offhand, the words just thrown lightly into a waiting ear that almost breathes them in.

Love is the inescapable, impossible desire to want to be more. The always, terrible, jangling fear that you are not good enough for the object of your affections. That first date, those slow uncoiling strands that reach from our hearts to grasp another’s is worse than a thousand job interviews.

We sit and chat for minutes that stretch into ours and then we kiss. That first kiss, that sudden explosion of electricity that makes your hair feel like it’s standing on end. You can’t stop smiling for hours. Everything feels good; the crisp air, even a granite city takes on a new and beautiful aspect.

And love takes on this wild, ridiculous journey, and for some time we’re together and then we split. Do we stop loving each other? Yes! Of course we do! Love is fragile and breakable and stop treating it like a word you can toss on a blasted perfume bottle to sell it.

You ever fall in love at first glance? You will. One day you will, and that glance across a room will hit you like a ton of clichés. I make light of it, but it’s true. One look. And suddenly you know, you know deep down in your heart, that something has to happen. You get butterflies. That first touch stops your breath, and when they step in close and you smell their hair your head swims because for a second you don’t want to breathe out. Sometimes you don’t even need words. Just touch, tactile sensations. Be dumbfounded; find yourself dumb before the object of your adoration. You are not meeting a human being; you are in the presence of a being from a higher plane.

And tonight that’s true, and tomorrow maybe it won’t be. Maybe it will. Angelic quitessence is not my department. But love, oh love is. What I know about angels would fit on the head of a pin, were there room, but my knowledge of love, of the passion and the anguish and the pain and the joy, that I could write a blog about.

Or I could just get furious about more adverts that tell us to love this, that, or whatever. Love who you want, what you want, how and when you want. Dance with the devil or lie with the angels or just plain lie to them. We live on the middle kingdom, so live somewhere in the middle. And love.

And of course men don’t listen. You want to be reassured of something we have already told you. We worked up to this, baring our souls. It seems to be easier for you. Well done. It took us three days to get up the courage to say those three words. Stop cheapening them by saying them every five minutes.